


Make It All My Home

by sunshinexbomb



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, M/M, Magical Realism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-10 00:08:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7822624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshinexbomb/pseuds/sunshinexbomb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Where are we, buddy?” Mike asks the dog, who just pants at him in response. It’s not particularly helpful.</p><p>“Kenora,” a voice answers, making Mike jump in surprise. It’s Richie, walking into the room with an amused smile and another dog by his side who yips at Mike before sniffing curiously at him. “You know, when I said I had a bed ready for you, I didn’t exactly mean <i>my</i> bed.”</p><p>--</p><p>In which Mike isn't adjusting well to signing with the Kings and finds comfort from magically Jumping to Richie's home in Kenora.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make It All My Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [otherwords](https://archiveofourown.org/users/otherwords/gifts).



> For the lovely otherwords who basically requested, "Richie needs someone to be sweet to him and Latta needs someone to believe in him." I saw [this](http://haipollai.tumblr.com/post/144837821089/papabackstrom-apparently-mike-richards-is) and honestly couldn't help myself, so I hope this covers both of those things! I also apologize if this strays too much into being focused on Mike not as a Cap, but I tried to make it about the transition and his feelings of letting go of an organization that clearly meant a lot to him!!
> 
> I really, really hope you enjoy it. Thank you to the mods for setting up this exchange and thank you to my lovely friends who looked this over before posting. All other mistakes are my own.
> 
> I am in no way affiliated with the NHL, and if you are, please exit out of this fic. Title is from Third Eye Blind's "The Red Summer Sun".

It’s been a long time since Mike’s woken up somewhere he’s not supposed to be, so in the morning, when the sun comes in through the window at an odd angle and he can hear water lapping against the shore, he thinks nothing of it. His body aches from the training he’d done with Tom the day before, and really all he wants is to sleep a few extra minutes, because his bed is warm and soft and comfortable.

Mike’s just drifting off again when he’s startled awake by loud barking and enthusiastic kisses that have him laughing despite how tired he is. “Calm down, Walter.”

The answering bark sounds nothing like Walter and when he opens his eyes, it’s definitely _not_ Walter staring back at him.

“Um,” Mike says, “hi, bud.”

The dog barks excitedly, licking Mike’s face again, and jumping onto the bed to curl into his side. Mike lets him and looks around him before letting out a huff of frustration. He doesn’t remember the last time he’d Jumped somewhere he doesn’t recognize at all.

“Where are we, buddy?” Mike asks the dog, who just pants at him in response. It’s not particularly helpful.

“Kenora,” a voice answers, making Mike jump in surprise. It’s Richie, walking into the room with an amused smile and another dog by his side who yips at Mike before sniffing curiously at him. “You know, when I said I had a bed ready for you, I didn’t exactly mean _my_ bed.”

Mike’s face heats up, probably turning red and blotchy with embarrassment. “Shit, Richie, I’m so sorry -”

Richie just laughs, full and loud, eyes crinkling a bit at the sides. His smile still makes Mike’s stomach flip, which is stupid because they’re friends and teammates - or they _were_ teammates. Mike should be over his stupid hero-worship crush by now.

“Don’t worry about it, Latts, I’m used to it. If I had a dollar for every time Carts ended up Jumping into my bed, I could’ve bought out my own contract,” Richie says. “Plus, it’s always nice to start the morning with a cuddle,” he adds teasingly.

“Oh my god,” Mike says, burying his head in his hands. “Did I really -?”

Richie just waves him off with another laugh. “I told you, it’s fine. You’re an excellent snuggler. Now, go get washed up. I have clean clothes in the dresser if you want to change and then we’ll have breakfast, yeah?”

Mike nods, hoping the color in his face has receded a little. “Yeah. Um, thanks, Richie. Again, I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean to put you out, I know you’re probably trying to just relax.”

“It’s _fine_ ,” Richie insists. “I’m always open to company. Now. Out of bed, let’s go.”

He wraps a hand around Mike’s ankle where his foot is hanging off the edge of the bed and Mike resolutely ignores the butterflies in his stomach. Mike’s not sure why he’s here, but he might as well make the most of it.

\--

Richie goes all out for breakfast, eggs and Canadian bacon and fresh fruit and coffee. Mike doesn’t realize how starving he is until they sit down with everything outside and in front of the lake. Jumping’s always made him hungry, even if it’s relatively short distances like Toronto to Kenora. Andre always used to complain that it made him dizzy, light-headed, especially when it happened without warning, but that never happened to Mike. He just felt famished, like his stomach was ready to cave in on itself.

The lake is even more beautiful than it looked in Richie’s pictures. The temperature is perfect in the early morning, and Mike feels relaxed, sitting and eating in silence while the dogs curl up beside them and soak in the sun. It’s definitely not the worst place Mike could’ve ended up, definitely _isn’t_ the worst place he’s woken up.

“When was the last time you Jumped?” Richie asks, head tilting slightly in curiosity.

Mike shrugs, tips of his ears hot. “In the middle of the night like that? A long time ago. Probably when I was still going up and down to Hershey. Usually only happens if I’m like, stressed? Or anxious. Been a bit of both lately.”

Richie nods in understanding, feeding Arnold bits and pieces off his plate even though he’d chastised him earlier for sniffing at their food. “Carts was the same way. It happened a lot when we first got to L.A. Neither of us were very thrilled,” he says, smile wry. “But things calmed down, I guess. Carts settled, and I found my own way of coping, even if it wasn’t the best way to handle things.”

Mike keeps his eyes trained on the lake, watching the ebb and flow of it onto the shore, the rhythm of it matching the rolling of his stomach. Richie never really talks much about what happened with the Kings, and none of them really asked. They’d all heard, of course, from the press and from the train of gossip that always made its rounds whenever anything happened. But Richie rarely said anything directly, and Mike never felt like it was his place to pry. He didn’t need to know the details to play with Richie, to support him and learn from him and help to make both their games at least a little bit stronger. It never felt too important in the grand scheme of things.

“I wasn’t either,” Mike says finally.

“Wasn’t what?”

“Thrilled,” he explains, “excited. I wasn’t really anything. It just felt - surreal, I guess? Like it was a dream. I really thought I was going to stay.”

Richie’s returning smile is small and sad. “No one ever thinks that they’re going to be the one to leave.”

Something heavy sits in Mike’s stomach, cold and hard like a block of ice that refuses to melt despite the warm summer sun on his face. “Shouldn’t I be excited, though? I’m going to a team that wants me, one that will let me play and let me prove myself. That should be enough for me, shouldn’t it?”

“You’re also leaving a lot behind,” Richie says with a shrug. “I was only in Washington, what? Four months? Five? And even then I could tell that team, it was something special. Saying goodbye is always hard, even if you have something to look forward to.”

Mike swallows around the thick lump in his throat. He knows that Richie’s right, but it’s still hard shaking off that feeling that he’s being selfish or ungrateful. Maybe he doesn’t have Washington anymore, but he still has hockey. Despite everything, Mike is still getting to spend every day doing the thing that makes him happier than anything else, and he knows that’s a lot more than what most people can say.

\--

The day passes by slow and lazy, and Mike didn’t even realize he needed a day like this, one to just relax by the water and laugh with Richie without having to worry about training or trades or anything. Being with Richie has a way of calming down things for Mike. It’s different than hanging out with Tom or Andre or his friends back in Kitchener or the OHL. Something about Richie is just so solid and grounding, and it’s exactly the kind of thing that Mike’s been missing this summer.

Richie puts Mike up in one of his guest rooms that night, but when Mike wakes up in the morning, he’s back in his own bed in Toronto, disappointed and disgruntled by his familiar sheets and the sounds of Walter barking at the door. He considers going back to sleep, hoping for a split second that he’ll be somewhere else again when he wakes up, but he’s startled back awake when realizes there’s knocking loud and clear at his front door and Tom calling his name.

“Dude, what the fuck?” Tom asks when Mike finally opens the door, rubbing his eyes sleepily.

“Um -” Mike doesn’t get much farther than that before Tom is pushing his way into the apartment. He’s obviously on edge, anger masking a more subtle worry that Mike can see in his eyes, in the way his fingernails are digging into his palm.

“Where were you all day yesterday? I called you like ten times and I was banging on your door for like twenty minutes before I realized I still had a key, but when I came in, no one was here.”

For some reason, the only thing Mike thinks to ask is, “Did you take Walter out?”

“Of course, I took Walter out, asshole,” Tom says, crossing his arms, offended. “Where were you?” he asks again.

Mike’s still not awake enough for this. He’s starving from Jumping back home and he’s a bit grumpy from Jumping back at all. He’s not particularly in the mood for Tom’s furrowed brows and raised voice, even though he knows it’s just concern. Mike takes his time digging through the fridge and pulling out eggs for breakfast and tossing a Gatorade at Tom who catches it and promptly sets it down on the table without opening it, still staring at Mike expectantly.

“I was in Kenora,” Mike finally says, digging around cabinets for a clean bowl.

“Kenora,” Tom says slowly. “Why the fuck - did you Jump there?”

Mike nods, back turned to Tom as he goes through the familiar motions of cracking the egg against the counter. He might not be a great cook, but he can do this easily enough. It feels good to have something to do with his hands, something to focus on that’s not Tom’s questions or confused looks.

“You jumped to Kenora - when? In the middle of the night? What’s even there? Wait -”

Tom’s voice changes suddenly in the middle of his questions, and Mike’s ears start to burn hot. He knew it wouldn’t take Tom too long to put together exactly where he’d Jump to in Kenora. Mike was lucky. He almost never Jumped anywhere he wasn’t familiar with or at least somewhere he would be met with a friendly face. There was only one person they both knew in Kenora, only one place Mike would end up.

Tom’s next question comes out between a fit of laughter. “Latts, oh my god, Latts, did you Jump to _Richie’s_?”

“Shut up,” Mike mumbles, not daring to turn around and risk seeing the shit-eating grin on Tom’s face. He concentrates on his eggs, flipping them over carefully in the pan and transferring them to the clean plate he’d found out on the dishrack.

“Hey,” Tom says, more quiet and sincere. He grabs Mike’s elbow, forcing him to look at Tom. Mike bites his lip nervously. “Seriously, though. Is everything okay? You haven’t Jumped suddenly like that in a long time.”

Tom’s concern is more obvious now, set in the curve of his frown and the dip of his brows. It makes Mike’s stomach tighten. He doesn’t want Tom to worry about him like this. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just a bit stressed with everything happening with the signings and stuff. But it’s fine you -” he stops, unable to get the _you know how it is_ off the tip of his tongue.

Because Tom doesn’t know. First round draft pick Tom who just signed a two-year contract, who’s always been with the same team, a team that’s wanted him and valued him enough to keep him, has no idea how it is.

“You know how I get,” Mike says instead with a shrug. “Probably just needed some time to relax, and I definitely got that with Richie. He was real cool about it.”

Tom’s still frowning, but he nods. “If you’re sure. Just remember you can talk to me about whatever if you need to.”

“Yeah, of course. I always do, don’t I?” Mike asks, because usually he does. It’s been a long while since he’s turned to someone who’s not Tom first.

“Okay. Yeah,” Tom says, relaxing a little, his grip on Mike’s elbow finally dropping. A grin slowly curls on his face, smug and teasing. “So, Richie, huh?”

“Oh my god, shut up,” Mike says again, whole face burning. “I shouldn’t have even told you where I was, you dick.”

Tom laughs more openly, taking a seat at Mike’s breakfast table, Mike sitting across from him with his breakfast. “No, what you shouldn’t have told me was that you had a massive boner for Richie when he played for Kitchener.”

“I was drunk,” Mike says in defense of himself, his own shoulders loosening from the tension he was holding there. This is an old argument, one they’ve talked circles around, and his answering chirp comes out with practiced ease. “You were totally sober when you told me about the wet dream you had about Ovi.”

Tom kicks Mike under the table, not nearly hard enough to hurt, and he laughs through it. “Shut up, at least I haven’t gone Jumping into Ovi’s bed,” Tom mutters, eyes widening when Mike chokes on his eggs. “Oh no, Latts, you didn’t -”

“Remember that time Burky Jumped in on Papa in the shower,” Mike says hastily, changing the subject. And Tom really must have been worried about him, because he lets this slide for once despite Mike’s blushing face, instead latching on to the opportunity to chirp Andre even when he’s not there.

Mike relaxes fully, Tom’s loud laughter and bright smile almost as comforting as the deep crinkles set next to Richie’s eyes had been.

\--

A week after Mike Jumps to Kenora the first time, he falls asleep on the couch watching The Bachelorette with Tom after training one night, and wakes up in Richie’s bed again.

“You making a habit of this, Latta?” Richie asks when Mike starts to snuffle awake, too warm in the summer sun that’s filtering in through Richie’s open window.

Mike just groans, shuffling away quickly once he realizes he’s all wrapped up around Richie. His face heats up straight away as he mumbles a quick apology that Richie brushes off with a laugh.

“Did you know you’re like an octopus in your sleep?” Richie teases. “Didn’t think I could ever escape.”

“Tom’s mentioned that before,” Mike says sheepishly, still blushing. “I’m really sorry, Richie. I don’t know why -”

“It’s okay,” Richie assures him, squeezing the back of Mike’s neck softly. “No one likes waking up to an empty bed, right? I don’t particularly mind the surprise visits.”

Richie’s obviously still teasing, smile bright and eyes crinkled, but Mike still blushes deep red, stomach rolling as he ducks his head shyly.

“So, breakfast?” Richie asks. “Then I was planning on going fishing later in the day if you’re up to that.”

Mike nods in agreement, stretching out the sleep-stiff muscles of his back and neck. “Definitely. Haven’t been fishing in ages.”

The morning passes the same as last time, Mike showering and coming out of the bathroom smelling like Richie’s shampoo and bodywash. He borrows a shirt from Richie and he doesn’t miss Richie eyeing the way it stretches across his broader shoulders when Mike walks into the kitchen.

“Um, you need any help?” Mike asks, face hot from Richie’s heavy stare that he doesn’t want to think too much about.

Richie raises an eyebrow. “You actually know how to cook anything?”

“I can cook,” Mike insists, making Richie snort in disbelief.

“I’ve seen the Winter Classic series,” Richie says. “You don’t have to lie to me, Mike.”

“I can make eggs,” Mike says with a slight pout that makes Richie laugh. “I’m not totally hopeless.”

Richie reluctantly lets Mike handle the eggs, the two of them working around each other easily, seamlessly. It reminds Mike of those days on the ice when things are just clicking, passes connecting and the puck always finding the back of the net, and it helps settle Mike, gives him the same kind of calm that he feels after a good practice or solid workout.

There’s something about Kenora and the steady ebb and flow of the lake that makes time pass by syrupy slow. Mike always misses the small town feel when he’s in the bustle of D.C. or Toronto. It’s the reason he loves going hiking in the summer, loves the feeling of getting lost and pretending at least for a little bit that the time he has is endless and there’s no schedules to follow, no worry about where he has to be next or what he has to get done before the next day starts.

The sun is hot, the air humid as they eat outside again, and it’s no different when they’re sitting on the pier, fishing lines slack as they wait for the hint of a bite. They talk quietly, Richie asking about what Mike’s been doing with his summer and Mike excitedly telling him all about his plans for the youth camp he’ll be working with in Waterloo.

“It’s just so cool, right? Working with the kids? Like, they’re so excited about being there and they work so hard, but they also have so much fun. I feel like sometimes we forget the reason we play hockey is because we love it. These kids, they never forget it,” Mike explains, unable to keep the bright smile off his face. “I think if I wasn’t playing, this is what I’d want to do instead. Work with kids, coach, that kind of stuff.”

“You’d be good at it,” Richie says with a soft smile. “Still a bit of a kid yourself, aren’t you? It’d be easy for you to connect with them.”

Mike bumps their shoulders together, making Richie laugh as he loses his balance a bit. “Shut up, I’m not that bad.”

Richie straightens himself out, keeping his shoulder pressed against Mike’s as he sits up. It’s getting hot, almost too hot to have Richie plastered against him like this, but Mike doesn’t think to move either.

“Do you ever think about what you’ll be doing when you’re done playing?” Mike asks softly.

He can feel Richie tense against him slightly, his mouth setting into a straight line. “Not really. I think every year I think the same thing - that I have a few more years left in me. That I can keep going. But now. I don’t know. There’s no saying where I’ll be next season, if I’ll be playing, or if it’ll be a few more months of just being stuck between now and the next thing. I’d like to say I have a few more years but,” he finishes with a noncommittal shrug.

Mike clearly remembers the creeping anxiety that sparked between the call from his agent and the UFA signing frenzy. The uncertainty, the sick coils of nerves he felt in his stomach until he got his call from the Kings. He can’t imagine going through that for months. He’d barely been able to handle it for a few days.

“I think,” Mike starts slowly, “whatever you do next, whether it be hockey or like whatever, you’re gonna kill it and make the best of it. It’s what you’ve always done and it’s one of the things I’ve always admired about you - like as a player I mean.” He adds the last part hastily when Richie laughs at him.

“You’re gonna do the same, you know,” Richie says, patting Mike’s hand where it’s sitting on his leg. “You were amazing this season - you were,” he insists when Mike gives him a disbelieving look. “Most guys would not have been nearly as supportive of their team or stayed so positive the whole season if they were in your position.”

Mike shrugs, very aware of the fact that Richie hasn’t moved his hand yet. “I guess. It just felt like the least I could do was have a good attitude. Like maybe if I stayed positive and worked hard it would pay off in the end.”

“It will,” Richie says, squeezing Mike’s hand softly. Mike ignores the rapid beating of his heart in his ears. “Maybe not how you originally planned, but you’re a stronger player because of it now.”

Richie’s words are easier to believe out here in the sun, the large expanse of the lake glittering in front of them, his hand warm on top of Mike’s. Mike wonders again why this is where his Jumps have taken him, here to Kenora and to Richie. He thinks about Tom’s sympathetic eyes and the encouraging smiles of his friends and his family and how none of them have made Mike feel quite like his soft conversations with Richie.

Mike’s pretty sure that Richie understands what he’s feeling better than most, and maybe that’s what he needs right now. Not just assurances that things will be okay, but assurances that come from someone who’s gone through this too. Assurances that are more than just hollow platitudes.

Mike manages a smile, and it grows when Richie grins back at him, nearly as bright and blinding as the afternoon sun.

\--

As much as Mike enjoys fishing, he’s never been particularly good at it. Mike catches nothing but throwaways, but the fish are truly biting on Richie’s line and they get enough to grill up for dinner that night. They eat inside, and Richie tells Mike about L.A., about the team and the city and the things he’s missed most since coming back east. It makes the whole thing feel real, even more so than his new contract or the messages from his new teammates. But for once, the panicky feeling in Mike’s gut isn’t there, and the anxiety under his skin is more nervous excitement than pure nerves.

“Do you want to stay the night?” Richie asks as they have a few drinks after dinner in his backyard. “Can make up the guestroom again.”

Mike surprises himself by shaking his head no. “Think I should head back. Freaked out Tom last time I disappeared.”

“Ah, yes, can’t have the missus worrying about you,” Richie teases, and Mike kicks at his chair lightly, too used to chirps about him and Tom to feel anything but warm at having Richie smiling at him.

“You know you’re welcome back here anytime, Latts,” Richie adds, “like a planned visit, I mean. If you ever need an escape, I’m happy to give you a place to stay.”

Mike nods in agreement. “I’ll try to give you a head’s up next time. Shoot you a text, tweet, something.”

“It was good seeing you,” Richie says, bringing Mike in for a strong hug that Mike lets himself sink into. He tries not to think about how he’d like nothing more than to stay just a little bit longer.

\--

The youth camp in Waterloo is just as amazing as Mike thought it would be. The kids have so much energy, and they’re genuinely excited to be there, to be playing the game they love and working to improve themselves. Their enthusiasm is infectious, and Mike’s in a better mood than he has been in what seems like a long time.

Mike finds himself texting Richie sometimes, adding pictures or videos of the drills he’d discussed with him back in Kenora. Richie always responds quickly, messages with lots of exclamation points as he congratulates kids he’s never met on their amazing goal-saving or slowly improving slapshots. Mike enjoys having that extra bit of encouragement, even though he knows he could just as easily get it from Tom or one of his friends at the camp with him. It feels different coming from Richie.

The local news comes to the rink one day, interviewing Mike and Hoffy, and Mike feels absolutely on top of the world, loving the fact that he’s giving back to the community in a way that feels so real and genuine. It also doesn’t hurt that Richie texts him a link to the video the night that Mike retweets it, with a _looking good steam ;)_ that leaves Mike’s face hot for what feels like hours.

He’s back at his place in Toronto when he gets a package from L.A. He signs for it with shaking fingers, annoyed at himself for his nerves.

“What is all that?” Tom asks when Mike walks back into the living room, starting to open the box as Tom and Walter stare with matching curiosity.

Mike doesn’t know why his ears turn hot, but they do as he replies, “It’s um, from the Kings.”

Tom’s face is carefully blank, like he’s unsure of how to look, how to feel. “What is it? Gear?”

Mike nods, unpacking the crisply folded t-shirts and new gloves carefully. It’s strange seeing all the black and white, none of it standing out starkly like the bright red of his old gear. The Kings logo printed on the fabric feels weird under Mike’s fingers, as does the “17” that’s printed over everything instead of the now-familiar “46”.

“It’s really happening, isn’t?” Tom asks, eyes a bit sad now. “Like, shit man, I knew it was but this is -”

Tom doesn’t need to finish, Mike knows exactly what he means. It’s a lot, nearly too much, and Mike has to swallow against the lump that’s started to form in his throat.

Mike tweets a picture of all the stuff because he feels like he should, and him and Tom try to go back to their evening after Mike’s taken everything back to his room. The night’s taken a weird turn, though, both of them feeling uncomfortable around each other in a way they haven’t possibly ever. Tom ends up leaving early, before they’ve even gotten the chance to have dinner, leaving Mike with Walter and the nagging reminder of what Mike’s tried to hide among the other boxes shoved unceremoniously in his closet.

Mike stares at his phone consideringly for a while, fingers hovering over Richie’s name as he thinks about what he’d said last time. If Mike ever had a time he needed an escape, it was now.

He texts Richie _r u free tonight?_ Before he can talk himself out of it, Jumping the moment he gets a reply.

\--

Richie doesn’t ask, not at first. He gets Mike a drink and they sit inside, playing NHL 16 on Richie’s big screen because it’s way too hot for them to be outside in the summer heat. Mike’s concentration is shot, though, and the tiny Ovi on the screen keeps losing the puck to the tiny Giroux controlled by Richie. Mike can feel his frustration growing with every puck that gets past tiny Holtby, and he finds himself throwing the controller down at the end of the second period more roughly than he meant to.

“This game sucks,” Mike mumbles, and Richie laughs, setting his controller aside too.

“The Flyers probably wish they were this good this season,” he jokes, and it makes Mike’s mouth twitch into a small smile.

Richie’s face turns more serious, though, as he shuts off the TV, turning his attention fully on Mike. His gaze is that same heavy kind of intense it was the last time Mike was here, the kind that makes Mike feel hot under the collar and bubbly in his stomach. Having all of Richie’s attention on just him is a lot.

“Did something happen?” Richie asks.

Mike squirms in his seat a little, looking down at his hands sheepishly. It’s hard trying to find the words without making himself sound too childish or pathetic. He doesn’t find them, and instead just settles on, “I, um, got a bunch of stuff today. From the Kings. Like shirts and gear and stuff. Sort of freaked me out, honestly.”

Richie’s unsurprised, and more importantly, he’s unjudging, his eyes soft and understanding. “Can I tell you something, Mike?” he asks.

Mike nods.

“The first time I got traded, I was terrified,” Richie admits. “You play on the same team for a few years, and it becomes everything you know. The guys on that team, the city, the fans, that’s all you start to know, and the idea of leaving it starts to seem like an impossibility. Everyone’s scared to uproot their lives and start over again. What you’re feeling - there’s nothing wrong with it.”

“Does it ever stop feeling like this?” Mike asks, his laughter nervous and shaky.

“Eventually,” Richie says. “You know what helps, though?”

“What?”

Richie smiles, covering Mike’s hand with his own. “Knowing you’ve got somebody on your side.”

Mike gasps softly when Richie kisses him. Everything seems to freeze, his heartbeat slowing down, matching the syrupy pace he’s start to associate with Kenora, with Richie and his calming presence. Richie’s beard scratches against the soft skin of Mike’s face, and his hand is warm where it’s cupping Mike’s cheek, tilting his head slightly when Mike starts to kiss back.

“I’m guessing you’re on my side then?” Mike asks, breathless, goofy grin spreading across his face. He’s thought about kissing Richie before, mostly when he was younger, but more than once after Richie joined the team also. The real thing is so much better than he ever could’ve imagined.

“How can I not be?” Richie replies with a laugh. “I never had a single moment I doubted you were on my side. You made me feel welcome on this team, the least I can do is help you find somewhere you feel welcomed too, and give you somewhere to go until you find it.”

Mike surges forward, kissing Richie again, a bit more roughly this time as he lets Richie guide him down until he’s lying down flat on the couch, Richie hovering above him. Richie is a warm and solid weight on top of Mike, and it feels so _good_ to have some pressed against him, to have Richie pressed against him.

“This would’ve been a good day to Jump into your bed, eh?” Mike says when Richie starts to leave kisses on his jaw instead, and Richie replies by pinching his side.

“I can take back that offer of giving you somewhere to go,” Richie mumbles, and Mike whines in protest.

He lets Richie kiss down his neck, lets his hand travel under the hem of his shirt, and for that moment, it’s more than easy to think of something that’s not L.A.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Comments and kudos are more than appreciated! Find me on [tumblr](http://tjoshov.tumblr.com) or [twitter](http://twitter.com/tjoshov)!


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